In The Eye

Civilian 301

Theresa Kempt walks briskly up to the front desk where a nurse sits at her typewriter. Mrs. Kempt walks so swiftly that she nearly knocks over the elegant arm chair placed in front of it.
"Hello, m'am," the woman says, turning her body away from the type writer. Mrs. Kempt eyes her. The woman was very young with a high voice. She noticed that her short golden curls were very broad and stiff- as was her bosom.
"I was here to inquire about a placement for my daughter," she says wringing her hands.
The woman opens a drawer and pulls out a form and pen, holding it poised above the first blank line on a questionnaire. Mrs. Kempt sits down in the armchair.
"Right then I will need to ask you a few questions. Your Name?"
"Theresa Isabelle Kempt."
A slight smile flicked across the woman's face, and she adjusted so that Mrs. Kempt could see her name tag: ISABELLE S. with SECRETARY is smaller letters underneath it.
"Child's name?"
"Thalia Orchid Kempt."
"Date of birth?"
"October second, she's 13."
"Has she had her menstrual yet?"
"No."
"Does she take any form of medication?
"No."
Isabelle adjusts herself and becomes more solemn.
"Is she retarded?"
"No."
"Is she mute, deaf, or blind?"
"No."
"Is she suicidal?"
"No."
"Will she be a sexual threat to other patients/staff members?"
"...No."
"Will she be a verbal threat to other patients/staff members?"
"No."
"Will she be a violent/physical threat to other patients/staff members?"
There was suddenly a shriek and the sound of a heavy door slamming. A small group of nurses came running down the hall with a small child on a stretcher who had a large gash on his arm. They hurdled out the doors just as an ambulance pulled up.
Mrs. Kempt choked up and tears stung the corners of her eyes. Isabelle slid the form and pen over the counter.
"I'll let you finish this, m'am."

Chapter 1

I sit on a metal slab in some sort of nurse's office, naked, picking at the crinkly paper beneath me. A single speck of an unknown substance gives me the feeling they reuse these examination table coverings.
My mother left me at this hospital about an hour ago after treating me to some ice cream. I felt a bit dreamy after eating it, though. Too weak to fight as she poked me with something sharp and took away my necklace and bracelets, and even my shoes. So out of it I hadn't realized that this was the required preparations if she wanted to bring me here, to the State School, otherwise known as the loony bin for kids and young adults.
Now, half awake, I'm only slightly aware of the nurse moving around me, poking me and examining me, now wrapping a tight gauze bandage around my left arm, from my wrist and up to my forearm.I watch my scars be smothered in silence as the soft material snakes over my them, hiding them. They had healed, why were bandages needed?
The nurse pulls a blue-gray frock over my head and carefully pulls my curly dark orange hair over it. She also pulls a pair of underwear and socks onto me. No shoes, though.
"You a healthy young girl," the nurse tells me as she marks a paper on her clipboard. "I think you're ready for Dr. Shucard."
I hop down onto the tile floor. The nurse leads me to a room where a man with tortoise glasses is busy arranging things on a table. His room isn't very big, but is given the illusion that it is with the tall book shelf in the corner bursting with books, binders, magazines, and papers of all sorts. I notice that in the center of the back wall there is a rolled up projection screen, and a projector on a cart just underneath it next to a boxy-looking square. The room isn't lit by anything but a single dim lamp with a pull chain that provides only still strips of light around the darkened room. For the first time since I got here, I am afraid.
"You must be Thalia," Dr. Shucard says standing to shake my hand. Reluctantly, I allow him to shake it.
"Why am I here?" I ask quietly.
Dr. Shucard pulls a binder from his shelf and then the chair to the center of the room, followed by the cart. But he motions for me to sit at the smaller chair placed with the back against the wall and its left arm against his desk. I sit, and he takes his place behind his desk and opens his binder.
"So tell me why you're here Thalia."
I blink. Didn't I just ask him that?
"My mom brought me here. I don't know why. There's nothing wrong with me."
Dr. Shucard bites the tip of his pencil and studies a page in his binder.
"It says that you attacked your step-father, with a knife. He nearly escaped with his life."
I cross my legs and shift in my seat. I thought my mother had known...
"Yes, I did, sir," I reply.
"It says you blinded your uncle with a candle, too."
"Yes."
"And you bit off your godfather's fingers."
"Yes."
"Why did you do that?"
For a moment when I meet Dr. Shucard's green eyes, I see those of my stepfather's burning back at me, giving me THAT look. Dr. Shucard's pencil morphs into Uncle Peter's cigar, flicking ashes on me, and his ring turns into my godfather David's brass knuckles. He waves his hand and repeats the question, and I see all of their hands together, winding back to strike me. Suddenly I am not in Dr. Shucard's anymore, I am in my stepfather's wine cellar, my uncle's living room, and my godfather's bedroom. They all wind back to hit me, and I feel the air being pulled out of me. Then I see a pair of scissors, and I reach for them. I must fight! So I bring the scissors back and then down, hard into their chests, and they fall away from me, and I can breathe.
I am awoken by sirens and a stinging in my neck. Dr. Shucard is bleeding, and pressing something into my neck that makes me feel fuzzy, and I fall to the ground. People close around me, and I drown in the darkness.

Chapter 2

A feeling of cold and wet tingles my nose, and I open my eyes. Just above me, there's a crack in the concrete ceiling that is dripping on me. For a moment I just lie there, listening to the drip drip drip of the water droplets falling.
When I try to sit up, I discover I have been straitjacketed. With much ease, I maneuver myself into an upright position. There's a few splattered droplets of blood on my leg. This reminds me, I think I just stabbed Dr. Shucard.
I lift my arms over my head and manage to undo a few buckles of the straitjacket before shimming out of it. This is an easy task because it is an ill-fitting jacket.
The room is padded, with five extensive mattresses making up the for walls and the floor. I can see the outline of a door, but no way to open it. I decide not to bother, simply because if someone hears me trying to get out, someone might restrict me again, more efficiently.
My left arm is a bit itchy from the bandages, so I unravel them. They have left imprints along my forearms, creating little wrinkles and creases in the skin. I look as if I am made of fabric. I trace each of my scars gently, and then I get the urge to slice again.
I think I was about 10 when I first cut, but the downfall of my life started earlier, when I was about 6.